


This Must Be What Dying's Like

by draca (wyvernwolf)



Category: Life on Mars (UK)
Genre: Crack, Dialogue-Only, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-30
Updated: 2011-06-30
Packaged: 2017-10-20 21:16:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/217177
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wyvernwolf/pseuds/draca
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>“This must be what dying's like.”</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	This Must Be What Dying's Like

“This must be what dying's like.”

“Dying? Pull the other one, Gene. You know it's just the flu.”

“Do you see me laughing, Sam? I'm dying I tell you. Have to be. No other bloody reason for me to feel like this. I'm at death's door.”

“I always knew you had a flair for the dramatic, Gene, but honestly, death's door? That's a bit much even for you.”

“Yes, death's door! What else would you call it? My insides might as well be my outsides and I feel like someone chucked me into one of those new fangled washing machine things and put me on the spin cycle and then hung me by my toes to dry in the stinking sun. I feel worse than the dog shit I scrapped of me loafers the other day. So, of course I'm bloody dying!”

“Your toes hurt?”

“My toes? I tell you I’m dying and all you can focus on are my toes? I never took you for being a cold-hearted bastard, Sam.”

“Well, you did just say that you felt like you'd been hung from your toes so the logical conclusion would be that-“

“Bugger logic! What does that have to do with bleeding anything? Who gives a toss about logic when I'm lying here, gasping my last breath and _dying_.”

“Get over yourself, Gene. You're just sick, not dying. Like I said, it's the flu. There's a bad one going round. Half the station's called in sick already.”

“And I’m telling you, this isn't flu. The flu is nothing compared to what I’ve got!”

“Gene, it’s the flu.”

“No, it isn't.”

“Yes, it-. Look, Gene, do you or do you not, have a sore throat?”

“I'm-”

“Answer the question, Gene! Sore throat? Yes? No?”

“Feels like I swallowed razor blades.”

“Ok. Good. Runny nose?”

“Like a river.”

“Charming. Aching limbs?”

“Like a right bastard. Feel like I've been run over by a bus. Even my hair hurts!”

“Feeling a bit weak too, right?”

“Who’re you calling weak! ‘M not weak! I'm in the prime of life, I am!”

“Prime of life? Uh huh... you’re as weak as a newborn kitten, Gene. And judging from the way you had your head stuck in the loo half the night, I'd say nausea was a yes too. You also have a slight fever so-”

“Slight fever? I'm so hot you could have a bloody fry-up on my forehead!”

“Stop exaggerating, Gene. And calm down before you start coughing again. Now, like I was saying before I was rudely interrupted, based on the symptoms, I think it's safe to say that you have the flu.”

“And I’m telling you I don’t have the flu! What would you know anyway. You're not a doctor! I say it's something else and I should know since it’s my body that’s wasting away here.”

“Fine! You're dying. Happy now?”

“...”

“Stop sulking, Gene. Now, is there anything else you need?”

“What does a dying man need?”

“ _sigh_... Gene... Right. If the amateur dramatics are over, I’ll be hea-”

“Oh. Oh! Oh, bugger me, Sam.”

“What? Gene? What's wrong? You going to sick up again? Here, use the bin!”

“Oi! Get that thing away from me and listen. Sam, I know what's wrong with me!”

“Other than being touched in the bloody head? Fine. Spit it out. What’s wrong with you? Other than the flu.”

“It’s not the flu.”

“Yes, it is. We agreed it was the flu, remember?”

“ _We_ didn’t agree to anything. You did all the agreeing all by your bloody self... wanker.”

“Fine. Blind me with your medical knowledge, Doctor Gene. Other than that you're a great big malingering pain in my arse who's going to make me late for work, what’s wrong with you?”

“I’m serious here, Sam. It was on telly the other night. I've got that thing that kills everyone who gets it. That booby thing...”

“Booby? Gene, now is not the time for one of your crass jokes.”

“’S not a joke, Sam. Just gimme a minute here. What was it called again... ah! Plague! That’s it!”

“Plague? You’re saying you’ve got the bloody plague? You have got to be joking, Gene.”

“’M not joking. I’m dead serious here. Booby Plague? No, that’s not right. Not booby. Er... a little help here, Mr. Know-it-all?”

“I think you mean the Bubonic plague, Gene.”

“That’s it! Bubonic plague! I knew I kept you around for something, Sam. It’s the one brought by those bastard rats! There was a rat when I chucked the bin out the other night. A right big bugger too and now I’m dying! Christ, Sam. You have to call the doctor! I've got the bloody plague!”

“Gene, just... just stop. You don’t have the plague. It’s the fever. It must be. It’s made you delusional. Just lie down and rest. You’ll feel better after a bit of a kip.”

“No, I won’t! I’ll be dead!”

“Look, I'll use small words, all right? You. Are. Not. Dying. It's the flu. A few days in bed and you'll be fine and back at work being a thoroughly annoying git. Which, not surprisingly, isn't that different from what you are now.”

“I'm dying here, Sam. From the plague. Show some sympathy.”

“I am showing you sympathy, Gene. I came over when you called, didn't I? At three in the bloody morning.”

“’S not my fault! I would've called you earlier but I was too busy sicking up everything I'd ever bloody eaten. I think I saw the bacon sarnie I had for breakfast two weeks ago bobbing up and down in the loo that last time.”

“I really didn’t need to know that, Gene. You know, I never took you for a hypochondriac.”

“Oi! There's no need for name calling. You're talking to a dying man, Tyler. Have a little respect.”

“For the last time, Gene. You're not dying. Jesus... I haven't got the time for this. Just... stay in bed and remember to drink lots of fluids because you have to stay hydrated. There’s two bottles of Lucozade on your bedside table so no excuses for not drinking them. And for god's sake don't knock them over and get them all over everything. You’re in no shape to be changing the sheets.”

“Lucozade? What do I need that for? If I'm thirsty I can just give you a yell.”

“Yell? I'm not disagreeing that you can be very impressive in full voice, Gene, but even you can't shout all the way to the station.”

“Station? What're you going to the station for? You're staying here.”

“Some of us do still have to work, Gene. Half the station's off sick, remember? You included now. Which means that those of us still standing are pulling double shifts.”

“But if you go, who's going to look after me?”

“Gene, unbelievable as it is, you are an adult and fully capable of looking after yourself.”

“But I'm sick!”

“Oh, so, you're just sick now, are you? I thought you were dying.”

“I am! I'm so sick, I'm dying! So, you can't go. You have to help me plan my funeral!”

“Gene! You're not bloody dying! Now stop being a sodding idiot. Right, enough of this. I have to go or I'll be late. Everything you need is next to you and I'll drop in after work and see how you're going then, all right? “

“Who's going to bathe my sick and fevered brow and hold my hand when I'm lost in delirium?”

“You what? Gene... has Phyllis been lending you her old Mills and Boons novels again?”

“...”

“Right... well...”

“Still leaving then?”

“You know the answer to that, Gene.”

“You know that if you leave, I'll have popped my clogs by the time you get back.”

“Gene...”

“I'm just telling you! I'll have carked it, turned my toes up, bought the farm, shuffled off this mortal coil and gone to meet my maker. I'll be deader than yesterday's dinner and it'll be all your fault.”

“You know, for someone’s who sounds like they’ve got a frog stuck down their throat, you’re surprisingly verbal.”

“You asking me to shut up?”

“Unequivocally? Yes. Now, Let me just be clear here, Gene. Are you saying that that by tomorrow you'll have passed on? That you'll be no more? Gene Hunt'll have ceased to be! He's expired and gone to meet his maker. A stiff! Bereft of life and now rests in peace in yonder grave! Come tomorrow, Gene, you'll have kicked the bucket, shuffled off your mortal coil and run down the curtain and joined the bleeding choir invisible!! Are you saying, Gene, that if I leave, you'll be an ex-Gene Hunt?”

“... Blimey. I think this thing’s catching! You’re starting to talk nonsense, well, more nonsense than usual. Here, hop into bed, Sammy. We’ll look after each other.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Gene. I’m not sick. That was just something from... I was quoting... nevermind. Somehow I don’t think Monthy Python’ll make much sense to you. And stop looking at me like that. I can't stay and you know it. Nothing you can say will make me change my mind. Right then. I’m off. Get some sleep and maybe you'll be a bit more rational when I drop by later.”

“What if I develop complications?”

“Complications? What are you on about now?”

“You know, Sam. Other complications.”

“Other complications?”

“Yes. _Other_ complications.”

“Gene, contrary to what you might think, I can’t read your mind. And if the look on your face is supposed to be indicating something significant, then it’s failing miserably. All it’s doing is making you look constipated. I didn’t get much sleep last night and I’m tired, Gene. Just spell it out for me. What complications?”

“You know. Swellings and such.”

“Swellings?”

“‘S what I said, isn’t it. Swellings. In sensitive areas.”

“Oh, for... then you’re going to have to take yourself in hand, Gene and fix it!”

“But I might need a hand.”

“Oh, for the love of-. Gene, I seriously doubt that anything will be swelling. Other than your head from your ego. Now, if you’re quite done wasting my time, I’ll be off. I’ll see you later.”

“Gene?”

“Gene... sticking your lower lip out like that is not conducive to encouraging me to stay... and you can stop with the big googly eyes too. They're more frightening than endearing.”

“Gene... come on. Stop playing silly buggers and let go of my shirt.”

“Gene! Stop that! What are you doing? Let go of me!”

“Gene... all right fine. I give up. You win. I'll call in and tell whoever's manning the desk that I'll be off sick. But only for today. Now, can you please stop your imitation of an octopus and let go of me?”


End file.
